Narrow, shadowy alleys slithered in the gaps between sandstone hovels.

The town was cramped, with homes pushed and stacked behind its walls. Cracks crept through the stones whilst the structures slanted. It was not meant to last – no life in the desert was meant to last.

But tenacity and fresh blood kept these places going, its people desperate. Merchants looking for shelter; runaway slaves and beggars; soldiers wounded and made useless in one of many conflicts.

Some travelled here and never left. Some tried to leave and crawled their way back. Some worked to the bone to maintain their freedom, but at least they were free. Some were bullies. And few were skilled or ruthless enough to claim wealth from these places.

There were many stories he didn't care for in the hooded figures and broken faces he passed by.

The centre of town, near the oasis, was better maintained. Lodging for merchants, barracks and houses of prayer were both kept and designed better. Balconies, shaded colonnades and simple mosaics proved that.

Amongst them Sandhailer found what he had been looking for: the bathhouse. He paid a high price for privacy, but considered it both necessary and deserved after his ordeals.

A short while later he stood before a shallow pool of water. Steam gently swirled up from the faint blue surface. White walls adorned with cobalt-coloured, geometric mosaics enclosed the space, leading up into a four sided, pointed dome like a shallow tower. At the very peak, open arches let in fresh air. Rays of fierce light fell through the rising vapour.

Sandhailer carefully laid the few items he always kept on himself at the side of the bath: his charms, his money and his khinjar. He stripped off the grey cloth, starting with his head. Despite his best efforts to clear himself of sand the night before, some had been caught in folds and now poured onto the white stone.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

With one hand he shook out his hair. Ashen brown locks fell before his eyes, and dust followed. His fingers found the scraggly hairs of a beard that hadn’t set in fully. Through a thin patch of hair he felt the ridges of a scar on his right jowl, and just the sensation made him frown. He pulled his hand away, and stepped into the water.

Days worth of sweat and grime washed off of his body. The caress of warm water was pleasant, and for a moment he let himself sink below the surface of the pool. He held his breath and relaxed. For a sparse few seconds he could pretend to be at peace: that the world weighed nothing – not even his body. But then his lungs ached and he was harshly reminded of the constant struggle for survival.

He surfaced again, taking a deep breath of air. Even after going under, sand still clung to his hair. Annoyed by this intrusive presence of the desert, he went under a second time and ran both hands through his hair until he felt no more grains.

Since he had already tainted the waters with sand, he had no qualms cutting his hair. Laying on the edge of the pool on both elbows, he pulled his khinjar closer and drew the blade. With one hand he grabbed his hair and pulled it back, before slicing it in one go. The remainder of his hair fell forward, and he trimmed some of the longest parts before his eyes with no care for how it would look. As long as it didn’t get in his way.

With his hair taken care of, he carefully dragged the blade along his chin. The beard was uncomfortable underneath the fabric of his mask, holding on to sand, sweat and heat. Feeling his way through he managed to get most of the stubble. He cleaned the blade, dried it thoroughly on his clothes, and vowed to sharpen it.

In his head he ran through everything required for the upcoming journey. Mentally he took note of all the resources he needed, especially now he needed it for two. He had packed enough for himself, but presumed that he would not see anything back that had been on his sailer. If it wasn’t looted the moment the sandstorm laid down, it would have been that same morning – if it could be found.

Then there was the matter of his tag-along. He’d call it a stowaway, but he had stowed him away himself, and so he had no-one else to blame. In truth, he wasn’t sure if he could feel guilty for saving this soldier. Even when he knew that the elder had been right to chastise him for it.

Guards took and killed. But this particular one only talked and questioned, like some stray pup barking at anything that moved. And from the very moment Swordeater had done so, he’d lost the ability to put down the empire dog – against all better knowledge.

Sandhailer laid his forehead against the cool stone, and sighed deeply.